


There's a First Time for Everything

by OxfordCommasRequired



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Royai - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 06:09:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12248547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OxfordCommasRequired/pseuds/OxfordCommasRequired
Summary: The first time she shot a gun, she was sixteen. Her father had gone into town for research, so she and the apprentice had been left alone on the estate. He took her to the woods, the gun he'd gotten when he registered for the academy holstered to his hip. She still felt a little betrayed by that choice, but she was beginning to see how it fit him. The military was possibly the only way he could achieve his idealistic goals.





	There's a First Time for Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as little scraps throughout my philosophy notebook. (Boy, was that class boring.) I finally gathered them all into one story a few weeks ago. Reading through it, I think it's canon compliant, if a little fuzzy on the details. Unbeta'ed. Enjoy!

The first time she held a gun, she was twelve. Her father was out on business, so she took the opportunity to straighten up in his office. As a rule, she wasn't supposed to be in there, but he never seemed to mind when the scattered books and sheafs of notes stacked themselves neatly into shelves and drawers. That day, while organizing his research by topic, she opened the top right drawer of his desk and found a silver revolver. She picked up the gun by its black handle, its weight lighter than she'd expected for something that could take a life.

“What are you doing?” a voice cut in, startling her. She locked eyes with the teenager in the doorway.

*

The first time she shot a gun, she was sixteen. Her father had gone into town for research, so she and the apprentice had been left alone on the estate. He took her to the woods, the gun he'd gotten when he registered for the academy holstered to his hip. She still felt a little betrayed by that choice, but she was beginning to see how it fit him. The military was possibly the only way he could achieve his idealistic goals.

And he'd apologized. That helped. So he trudged in front of her, broadening shoulders slack with the relaxation that came with time away from his petrifying teacher. She wished for his sake these moments would happen more often. They stood in a clearing and shot at old bottles.

After her first shot, he whistled and clapped. (She'd only clipped the bottle, but it was twice as far as he'd ever practiced. He'd had a hunch about her.)

*

The first time she owned a gun, she was eighteen. It was her birthday. Her father was too distracted to notice, too wrapped up in some advancement of his work. Her skin was still healing, and she pretended her heart wasn't wounded too. The apprentice had become her friend – behind her father's back, at least. When he paid attention, they still called each other Mr. and Ms.

He remembered her birthday. He was subtle about it, and she wondered a bit how well they'd come to know each other that he knew exactly how to treat it. He cooked her favorites that day, took a few extra moments just to talk with her, and presented her with a sturdy box as they parted at the end of the day.

“You've earned it. And I trust you not to hurt yourself,” he said, as she weighed the handgun in her palm.

*

The first time she shot a person, he wasn't there. She was twenty and had been shipped off to the war, before she'd even graduated. She was a crack-shot, the jewel of her commanding officers, and had been shown off to superiors until someone decided the last four months of her training were superfluous. On the way, her train to war, her battle carriage, was attacked by a band of rebels.

They were going for the general on board. Unluckily for them, they leapt into the cabin of the military's newest secret weapon sniper. They were each dead before their hands could raise their own weapons.

She received her first commendation before she reached the battlefield. But she was numb. Her count was already 6. It seemed too high.

*

The first time she shot a person in front of him, it was his birthday. She was still twenty. She'd been separated from her regiment due to a collapsing building (she later suspected he was unknowingly at fault), so she was carefully plodding her way to the nearest base, of the next regiment over. She didn't know he was there.

She leapt another rooftop and carefully examined the area for rebels or comrades. She spotted three people. A wounded rebel dragged himself along a crumbling wall, with a knife in hand that glinted in the harsh desert sun. Two men in uniforms to match hers were absorbed in a paper between them. She knew it was a map, like her own commanding officers', by the manila paper and glaring red and blue markings.

One of the men was dark haired. She pretended she didn't wonder if it was him. The other was tall, bulky, and mustachioed. She recognized him as the major from stories her compatriots told to brighten the mood.

The rebel leapt out in a sudden rush at the officers. They were too slow.

Her shot blistered her ears and theirs as it pierced the spot between the rebel's eyes. They dropped into crouches, searching for the source of the shot, wondering if it was friendly.

She stood and packed away her rifle. She gave away her position by standing. It made her itch. She suppressed the urge to find cover as she made her way to them.

He couldn't hide his emotions as well as she had learned to. His face was slack with shock. His dark eyes raked over the purple circles beneath her eyes, the rifle over her shoulder, and the uniform dwarfing her body. His mouth shaped her name in silence. She nodded and saluted him.

Her heels clicked together as she barked, “Happy birthday, sir!”

The mustached major laughed.

The trio made their way to the men's base. The major thanked her for saving them, but he walked beside them without saying a word. She couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking, but he made no effort to let her know.

*

The first time she used the words that would become her mantra, two more weeks had passed. He cornered her after rushing through a mission with a dangerous number of active rebels. He started in on her, firing questions like bullets, leaving her no time to respond.

Soon enough, though, his recklessness came back to haunt him, and she saved his life again. The rebel's lifeless body slumped at his feet.

Instead of answering each question, she simply said, “There's someone I need to protect.”

*

The first time she steadied her gun at him, she was crying. His jaw was tight, hand up and ready to make the tiny finger movement that would annihilate his prey.

“What are you doing?” he barked, eyes flickering to the gun held steady in her grip. She wished it would shake, but she was far beyond such weakness now.

“Sir, you will not kill him.” She took a deep breath. “Or I will do what you once asked of me.”

He was still for an interminable moment. Then he growled and clenched his hand into a fist at his side. “As always, you're right.” He stalked away from the young boy against the wall.

She mumbled, “I wish I weren't, sir.” She glared at the child before following him.

*

The first time she laid down her weapon, the war had been declared over. It didn't feel over. She almost didn't want to go back, because she couldn't fathom returning to a normal life after everything she'd done.

But she saw him that evening, on his knees in the sand, staring blankly out at the crumbled city, and she knew they had to return. He was ready to crack, on the edge of falling beyond her ability to restore him.

“Sir,” she breathed, her hand ghosting over his shoulder.

He continued to stare for a minute longer, then mumbled, “Yes, of course,” and walked back to camp with her.

She pretended not to notice as he wiped his face dry.

*

The first time she realizes how she feels about him is every day. The thought crops up in both simple and complicated moments, when he laughs and when he kills, in her delight and in her desperation, every time her count ticks higher. She shoves it down.

But the next time he lets her in and reveals another bit of his soul, or the next time he locks her out and exposes another hidden fear, the thought returns, and she is forced to admit the truth, at least to herself, at least for a moment. Then she gulps past the lump in her throat and forcibly forgets.

It is a constant cycle that energizes and exhausts her, leaves her breathless and haunted.

*

The first time she tells him how she feels, it is all over. That fateful day has long since passed, he has finally achieved his goal, and they are rebuilding. He has asked her many times to follow him, has asked impossible questions and requested unimaginable things of her, but he has never before asked the one question she has always been able to answer. Finally, one unremarkable day in his office, he asks.

“Why have you followed me all this way?”

She smiles softly. She almost doesn't answer, assumes it's obvious, but there is a vulnerability, and a touch of terror, about his eyes that makes her lips part and the words fall through.

His reaction takes a moment to form. After everything, though, she can't be afraid.

His eyes fall to the ground, and the tiniest hint of a smile slips onto his mouth.

He says nothing for a while, long enough that she is prepared to leave him to his work. Then – “Thank you.” She smiles and nods, for once forgoing the salute to her commanding officer.

 


End file.
